Day 74: My First hundred

Got my first penny yesterday on the day called "No first penny", so let's call today "My First Hundred", eh?  Ok ok, proofreading gets you the good stuff.  You find the best details when you're proofreading.  So this process is going to be doubly long every day, but I'm read for a commitment!  You hear that, ladies? 

I think "finding your voice"  means writing so fast that you can't censor yourself.  And then you go back and proofread, right?  Or maybe it's all about watching a lot of Rich Fulcher videos.

Rich Fulcher book interview

Note to self:  Stop prefacing everything I say with, "I know you don't care, but..."  That's a defeatist attitude!

Working on finishing all of this stuff.  I'm steadily getting more hits on this thing.  Facebook friend me, whatever random person reads this.  Justin Engelbart.  That's me.  Says it right on the blog title.

             He hit the automatic lock button and beat his hand against the dashboard when he saw the path of destruction cleared through the woods.  Jim was in the middle of the driveway, facing away from the house on the gravel path bathed in the light that cascaded down through the trees. 

            Carefully opening the drivers side door as to not alarm the girls, he worked to get his most composed “I’m a good dad” face on and turned back toward them. 

            “Girls, this will be a minute, we have to see what your Uncle Jim has gotten himself into.”  He shot them a smile and swore so low under his breath it was inaudible.

            He knew he heard a couple “but dad’s!” already, but slammed the passenger side door and barrelled headlong up the walkway.  He stubbed his toe on what he imagined was an old steel drum carborator, noticing piles of scrap metal and bolts underneath his feet and looked back at the car in relief that he hadn’t got a flat.  Jim swung the shovel in the air like he had no idea what was going on, his long Willie Nelson braid flailing wistfully in front of his face.

            The magnificent robot head laid spread out on the ground like a pancake with a face drawn onto it with bacon and eggs.  Smoke rose from nowhere in particular like someone was having trouble putting a bonfire out, and the midday sun absorbed it all willingly.

            “What in the world.”  Roger said, shaking his head while failing to suppress the wide grin crossing his lips.  Metal littered the forest like a bomb had exploded.

            “The robots malfunctioned, the giant robot head tried to show me my past and it suddenly excused itself with steam.  Then it got torn up by these two bad guy robots.  They’re still out there somewhere.”

            Unbeknownst to Jim, the bully bot stood behind the house smoking a cigarette and filling its turbine engine with smoke that’s poisonous to humans.  It called its automated good-girl girlfriend, the one that was really just part of its programming.  It used its expensive I-Phone that Jim hadn’t purchased for it, on its calling plan that Jim didn’t realize he was paying for.

            “Well, where are you going to sleep tonight?  You can’t sleep inside, the girls think you are creepy…”  Roger mistook Jim’s forlorness with a shock-related anxiety and couldn’t fight off the humanity irking at him. 

“Okay, we will make you a spot on the couch in the den.”  Roger stared at the girls back in the car, huddled by the windows like they were on safari staring at a rhino at a distance.

            Night fell and Jim got done sweeping up the remnants of his crushed dream.  He had enough scrap metal to build a new hut out of, but most of the connecting pieces and wires were scrambled or fried.  The pile looked like a miniature junkyard when he was done, he didn’t stop to rest or sleep, his mind was racing.

            The tinkering got louder and more obnoxious every minute it continued in the den.  It was as if a tiny bird that only knew how to sing one song and would do so with gusto each hour of the day had found a spot in the house.  He covered his ears with his pillow, put earplugs in his ears, but the faint almost indetectable tinkering noise was just as annoying as the loud, certifiable one. 

Roger pushed through the three part swinging gate to the den and wiped his eyes, sleepwalking the whole way.  Jim was behind a metal workbench that clashed with the modest modern style of the room, but he hadn’t touched any of Miranda’s stuff.  There was no couch there for him to sleep at, and his eyes were peeled wide like he might never blink.

Scaffolding fell off the side of the house and into the middle of the frozen solid walkway on the other side.  It thunked softly, and Jim pried his eyes away from the oval shaped cartridge he was jabbing repeatedly with a screwdriver.  He stiffened again, and focused forward.  The shades showed prisms of shadows magnified by the lantern suspended off the side of the building.

Roger was temporarily mesmerized with Jim’s work, his hand moving in a methodical and swift motion, like they were working on their own without his input.  Jim’s eyes were glazed over and bright red, he had changed into sweatpants and an Incredible Hulk T-shirt which he had apparently stashed somewhere. 

“Jim.”  Roger said quietly, upset at his own unwavering monotony.  “Jim, I have to be asleep.  Jim, that is making a lot of noise, Jim, come on, Jim.”  He pried Jim away from the desk and set him up in an office chair, Jim slowly but surely dropping the screwdriver.

The wall started to shake with a harsh drilling noise, and hollow thunks followed as screws emerged from the opposite side.  The house was old school wood, designed by Jim when he had been more practical in his studies years before.  Roger wasn’t sure how he came into his money in the first place, or how he had lost it, but judging based on his complete disconcern with his physical and mental health it probably was standard delusions.

Roger went out through the front door, putting his slippers on by the doormat.  He pulled the drawstring on his blue robe tight and hugged himself as he walked around the house, apprehensively listening for noises.  The wheelbarrow he liked to keep by the house to move kindling was rolled out all the way to the edge of the woods, a few of his novelty tiki lanters were broken and scattered in bright purple pieces about the ground.  The girls hadn’t liked staying out here in the first place, Miranda was going to kill him.  He sighed as he dragged the wheelbarrow back up the walkway, the wheels scraping more than turning. 

There was what looked like a computer chip planted into the side of the building where Jim’s room was.  Roger kneeled down to touch it and received a mild electric shock that felt like a humming inside of his skin.  It flashed blue when he stared at it for long enough, although the first flash was barely detectable.